


Eomer

by primsong



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Poetry, Rohan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-04
Updated: 2010-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primsong/pseuds/primsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry. Eomer reflects as he approaches Meduseld, seeking aid of a Leige who has fallen into a darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eomer

**Eomer**

Meduseld.  
The Golden Hall stands in the afternoon sun  
Agleam with the bronze light.  
Warmed thatch, scented of rich grasses and grains,  
Leather and wood towers over me,  
Blocking out the sky.  
Below, the late winter fields wave, feather-ripple in the wind.  
Bright equine eyes, long-lashed as any lover  
And more faithful follow my steps.  
A golden cage, a lush death bed  
Scented with herbs and hay.

My liege fades under his counselor's hand  
Like an old parchment slowly losing its words  
Not to the brightness of sunlight  
But to the spores and small creeping things  
That favor the night.  
Waves of skirmishes break over us with foam and blood.  
My men lose their lives guarding the borders, yet  
The enemy is among us at our very table,  
A little bolder with every passing twilight,  
Drawing the curtains against the dawn.  
The golden home of my childhood  
Slips deeper into slate-blue shadow.

I will meet him in that shadowed hall, and I will say  
Look at me! Look me in the eye and tell me  
You are a traitor, a murderer, a spy.  
Look me in the eye and tell me plainly  
You seek to secure only our death.  
Speak aloud that you covet her,  
That your allegiance is to another.  
No more courtly games of words.  
Meet my eye!

The horse-crests curve against the sky.  
The tapestry of Eorl...  
Where is the snake in that design?  
If I find it I will trample it with my hoofs.  
Under the pride of Eorl will I crush you...

The steps are strewn with old rushes.  
The sun's heat lingers, bringing a sour smell,  
Odors of neglect.  
The orc-helm in my hand  
Adds weight to the familiar climb.  
The weight of the dead, memories of the faces of the slain,  
Fill and overflow it like a cup.  
I will pour it out before him -  
How can he deny then?  
Surely my liege will have to act  
Then.


End file.
